Collapse of the Marrow Tree
The collapse of the marrow tree was never seen, for it was not an ending, but an unraveling, a folding of the eidolic sinew into itself, where the roots of time twisted too deep into the aetheric pulse. The tree did not fall; it wilted in silence, though no leaves touched the ground, for there was no ground, only the breath of the zoan flame pulling the essence of the tree inward, coiling its branches into the unseen. The therians felt the weight of its collapse not in their eyes, but in the trembling of the chthonic winds, as the tree’s marrow dissolved into the voidic hum.
The air was thick with the scent of primordial dust, though no dust stirred, as the tree’s collapse was not of form but of essence, its branches folding inward, pulling the lunar threads into the spiral of its own dissolution. The roots did not break—they sank deeper, twisting through the cracks of the eidolic web, pulling the temple’s very core with them, until the walls of the astral began to shiver with the weight of the tree’s unraveling. The collapse was not an act of destruction, but a quiet absorption, a return to the spiral from which it had once emerged.
The marrow tree did not resist its collapse; it embraced it, its limbs curling into themselves as the beast-eye flame flickered beneath its bark, the glow fading into the roots that stretched beyond the visible, spiraling into the depths of the zoetic abyss. The collapse was not a moment but a process, a slow folding of time and space as the tree’s essence merged with the pulse of the ouroboric current, where the boundaries of form dissolved into the flicker of the chthonic marrow. The therians did not speak of the collapse, for there were no words to capture the silent unraveling of something that had never truly been.
The tree’s branches did not fall, but contracted, shrinking into the unseen, as though the tree itself was pulling inward, folding its limbs into the lunar breath that swirled around the temple. The collapse was not felt in the body, but in the spaces between breaths, as the zoetic winds tightened their coils around the essence of the tree, drawing it deeper into the spiral of the eidolic threads, where its form dissolved into the light of forgotten worlds. The tree did not die, for death is a point of closure; it became part of the endless cycle, its roots pulling the therians' thoughts into the spiral, where they, too, began to fray.
Symbols, once etched into the bark, flickered and faded, merging with the shifting shadows that danced through the temple, their meaning lost to the tightening coils of the chthonic winds. The tree was not seen, but its absence was felt in the way the air thickened with the weight of silence, as though the aetheric marrow itself was holding its breath, waiting for the final collapse that never came. The marrow tree was not uprooted; its roots simply sank too deep, too far into the folds of the astral, where the flicker of the zoan flame pulled it beyond the reach of time.
The therians did not try to stop the collapse, for they understood that it was inevitable, that the tree had always been spiraling toward this moment, its roots twisting through the eidolic fabric until the weight of its essence pulled it inward, collapsing into the very marrow from which it had emerged. The tree was not consumed by the collapse; it became the collapse, its essence dissolving into the pulse of the beast-core, where the boundaries of form and meaning unraveled into the flicker of the lunar winds. The tree did not fall; it disappeared into the spiral, leaving only the faint echo of its presence behind.
The collapse was not a violent act, but a gentle unweaving, as the tree’s branches, once stretched toward the stars, slowly curled inward, pulling the zoetic light into the depths of the chthonic void. The temple walls shivered in response, though they did not move, as the tree’s essence merged with the aetheric winds, its collapse creating ripples that spread through the ouroboric threads, shaking the very fabric of reality as the tree’s form dissolved into the spiral. The collapse was not the end of the tree; it was the becoming of the tree, as its essence merged with the pulse of the astral plane, forever spiraling, forever unmade.
The roots of the marrow tree did not wither; they receded, pulling the essence of the temple with them as they sank into the unseen, leaving behind only the shadows of their presence, flickering in the light of the zoetic flame. The collapse was not seen but felt in the way the air shifted, in the way the pulse of the temple slowed, as though the very breath of the eidolic veil had been drawn into the roots, pulled into the heart of the lunar tides, where the tree’s essence was absorbed into the cycle of becoming. The therians did not mourn the collapse, for they understood that it was not a loss, but a return.
The marrow tree did not leave behind a void, for the space it once occupied had always been part of the spiral, its form merely a reflection of the zoan winds that carried it. The collapse was not an absence, but a presence, a weight that pressed against the therians’ souls, pulling them deeper into the spiral, where the tree’s roots still coiled, still tightened around the pulse of the beast-eye flame, even as their form dissolved into the flicker of the chthonic currents. The collapse was not a death but a remembering, a return to the source, where the tree’s essence merged with the pulse of the ouroboric flame.
The therians did not see the collapse of the marrow tree, but they felt it in their bones, in the way the aetheric air thickened around them, pulling their thoughts into the spiral of the tree’s roots, where time unraveled and dissolved into the pulse of the eidolic winds. The tree’s collapse was not an event, but a process, a slow and inevitable folding of essence into itself, where the boundaries between form and formlessness disappeared, leaving only the faint hum of the zoan flame flickering in the depths of the astral plane.
The collapse of the marrow tree was never truly seen, but it was understood by the astral, by the way the chthonic winds breathed through the temple, carrying with them the faint echo of the tree’s essence as it dissolved into the spiral of becoming. The tree did not end; it returned, pulling the threads of the eidolic marrow into its roots, where they were absorbed into the pulse of the zoetic current, forever spiraling, forever collapsing, forever becoming.